A thin, dark brother on my left, who had been attending to a cold pork pie (there are no pork pies to equal ours, which are home-made), suddenly lifted his long head, in which a pale blue glass eye swivelled insanely.
“Well,” he said slowly. “My motto is ‘Never again.’ Ne-ver again for me.”
“Same here—till next time,” said Pole, across the table. “You’re from Sidney, ain’t you?”
“How d’you know!” was the short answer.
“You spoke.” The other smiled. So did Bevin, who added: “I know how your push talk, well enough. Have you started that Republic of yours down under yet?”
“No. But we’re goin’ to. Then you’ll see.”
“Carry on. No one’s hindering,” Bevin pursued.
The Australian scowled. “No. We know they ain’t. And—and—that’s what makes us all so crazy angry with you.” He threw back his head and laughed the spleen out of him. “What can you do with an Empire that—that don’t care what you do?”
“I’ve heard that before,” Bevin laughed, and his fat sides shook. “Oh, I know your push inside-out.”
“When did you come across us? My name’s Orton—no relation to the Tichborne one.”